


A Night In Congress

by laetificat



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The West Wing
Genre: Drunk Sex, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 20:17:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19116949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laetificat/pseuds/laetificat
Summary: Tony Stark is, to all intents and purposes, the enemy. He's the guy on the other side of the fence. The man who symbolises everything Jed Bartlet's White House would give everything to change.So no, Sam Seaborn isn't entirely sure why he's French kissing Tony Stark in the elevator of the Four Seasons hotel at one o'clock in the morning, but either way he's pretty sure he doesn't want to stop just yet.





	A Night In Congress

**Author's Note:**

> continuing my series of getting Tony laid in as many universes as possible. this was actually started in 2012 -- I rediscovered it in my WIPs pile recently and couldn't resist finishing it.

Sam Seaborn isn't entirely sure why he's French kissing world renowned multi-millionaire businessman Tony Stark in the elevator of the DC Four Seasons hotel at one o'clock in the morning. He's not completely certain he knows why he's even in the DC Four Seasons hotel at one o'clock in the morning, much less with Tony Stark, who is, after all, the man who has (by his own admission) been voting Republican since before he could walk ("figuratively speaking"). Who has (also by his own admission) revolutionised the weapons industry and whose name alone causes Josh to launch into a fifteen minute rant about the military industrial complex crippling the country and how arms dealers are cupping America's balls with one hand while they hand out M16's to Liberian children with the other.

Tony Stark is, to all intents and purposes, the enemy. He's the guy on the other side of the fence. The man who symbolises everything Jed Bartlet's White House would give everything to change.

So no, Sam Seaborn isn't entirely sure why he's French kissing Tony Stark in the elevator of the Four Seasons hotel at one o'clock in the morning, but either way he's pretty sure he doesn't want to stop just yet.

Tony's breath is scalding hot against Sam's cheek. His palm, sliding back and forth across the gulf of skin above the waistband of Sam's trousers, is hotter still. He draws circles on Sam's belly, inverts the angle and drags his nails a little. Sam groans against Tony's mouth and grabs at the brass rail that's bumping against his ass with every shove of Tony's hips.

"You like that?"

Sam makes an agreeable noise. Tony does it again. And again. The rail under Sam's palm is slick and warm, and when the elevator thuds to a stop he almost falls over. Tony's gone in an instant, halfway to the doors, smoothing down his hair and straightening his cuffs.

"Might want to tuck your shirt in," he suggests, without looking back.

Sam does as he's told, fumbling because his hands are shaking from nerves or need or both. He's almost entirely convinced that the elevator doors are going to open on a crowd of distinguished political figures, none of whom would be very pleased to see the Deputy White House Communications Director in a state of considerable emotional (and literal) undress. Instead, they admit only a view of an empty corridor, and Sam is so overcome with relief that the doors begin to close without him and he has jog to catch up with Tony, who is out of the elevator and heading down the hall at a rate of knots.

Tony examines the key card for a moment before unlocking the door to his suite. He doesn't hold it open but heads straight on in. Sam catches it on the backswing and follows him inside, wondering as he does so why a guy worth so much money has nothing in the way of personal security.

The suite is large, expensive, but nothing Sam hasn't seen before. An open laptop and a spray of papers across the coffee table are the only personal touches. There's a magnificent view of the capital, and Sam wanders over to the picture window to see it better and catch his breath, the white shirt in his reflection making a ghost on the glass. His heart is thundering in his chest and all his tongue is sour with alcohol and Tony's cologne.

"You wouldn't believe who I had to blow to get that view."

Tony's been in the room for five minutes and already he's got a drink in each hand, his jacket off and his tie is loose around his neck. He looks like a political cartoon. Sam finds it hard to believe he's had to get down on his knees for anything his whole life.

Tony hands Sam one of the glasses. His shirt cuff pulls up a little and there's a burn scar on the back of his wrist, about the size of Sam's smallest fingernail, almost completely round. It looks like a cigar burn. Tony catches Sam looking.

"Soldering iron when I was eighteen."

Sam swirls his drink. Catches his breath.

"So you're one of those hands-on arms dealers?"

Tony looks at him over the rim of his glass.

"And I thought we already had this argument," he points out, and there's a smile caught in the corner of his mouth. Sam fights away the urge to put his lips against that smile, to see whether it tastes like gunmetal like he thinks it should.

"I'm sorry, I just. I don't usually do" Sam indicates the space between them with his drink, "this -- "

Tony raises his eyebrows.

"With men?"

"With Republicans, actually."

"Oh."

"It's kind of. It's not that you’re –- it’s not that I wouldn’t, under normal circumstances, but you’re –- it's just that we’ve got the midterms coming up and the numbers coming out of California aren't exactly -- "

Tony's smile doesn't taste like gunmetal. It tastes like Johnny Walker Blue. At some point during Sam's speech, he's set his drink down, and now his fingers are at work in the hollow of Sam's throat. Sam realises, belatedly, that Tony is far too good at kissing someone and undoing his tie at the same time to be new at this. He's a swift train of thought away from deciding this is a bad idea when one of Tony's hands drops from Sam's chest to his fly and then everything derails.

Tony moves his mouth to Sam's jaw as he opens the zipper of Sam's trousers and slides his hand inside. Sam reaches out for something to stop himself falling over and finds the back of one of the armchairs, palming the whorls of dark rosewood just as Tony is palming his erection. Sam's hips sway forward and he makes a sound in the back of his throat that may or may not be gratitude and then Tony pulls back, hitches his trousers up, and goes onto his knees on the carpet. He hasn't even put his drink down when Tony Stark takes the head of his cock into his mouth and Sam suddenly realises that he's getting a blowjob from a man ranked seventh in the Forbes 400. A really, really good blowjob.

"Oh god."

Tony makes a noise that Sam takes to be agreement. He swirls his tongue like he's licking an ice cream cone.

"Oh. Oh, you're really.. you're really very good at.. at this.."

Sam feels the need to do something with his hand and ends up with his fingers in Tony’s hair, waxy pomade smearing his palm. The ice is melting in his scotch. He thinks about sipping it, wonders if that would look gauche, but, counter point, when is he going to get the chance to do this again, so he takes maybe too big of a gulp and nearly chokes when Tony hollows his cheeks and lets Sam’s cock slide down his throat. 

Sam's brain rattles through something about proprietary and swallowing, but Tony interrupts before he can say it out loud, leaning back and replacing wet lips with cool fingers. He gives Sam a languid stroke or two.

"Did anyone ever tell you how good you look from down here?" 

Helpless, drunk, for once in his life without words, Sam blinks at him.

"It's okay. Come on." Tony stands up. He takes Sam's drink out of his hand, finishes it, puts it down on the coffee table. “If you like the view out here, you’ll love the one in the bedroom.”

*

Afterwards, Tony doesn't sleep. He pours himself a double from the wet bar and sits in front of his laptop as dawn rolls up through the sky over DC, watching Sam’s chest rise and fall.

*

Obadiah is waiting for him when he slips out the door into the hall. He takes the overnight bag from Tony's hand. Tony pulls a rolled up silk tie out of his pocket.

"Good night?"

Tony makes a noncommittal sound, distracted with the task of trying to knot the tie around his neck.

"Was she cute?" Obadiah sets the bag down at his feet along with his copy of the Financial Times and brushes Tony's fingers aside. Tony tilts his head back and lets him work.

"Hmm?"

"The girl in the room. Come on, Tony, I know you didn't leave the convention early because you wanted a few extra hours of sleep."

Tony grins at the ceiling.

"One of these days you're gonna come with me, Obie."

"Yeah, right." Obadiah flattens his hand against Tony's chest, covering the red and black stripe pattern of the tie. He looks Tony dead in the eye. "Is she important?"

Tony's grin reappears. "What kind of a question is that?"

"Tony -- "

"No, she isn't important. Some cocktail waitress. Redhead. Legs up to her ears. You'd like her."

Obadiah looks at him for a moment, his expression opaque as a block of unworked stone. Then something seems to clear, and he claps Tony on the shoulder and reaches down to pick up the bag. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

As they start down the hall, Tony has to slip a couple fingers under the tie to loosen it.


End file.
